


The Death of Me

by craple



Series: our bonds are not verdict [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate History, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Cultural References, F/M, M/M, Other, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-20
Updated: 2012-07-20
Packaged: 2017-11-10 08:13:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/464123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/craple/pseuds/craple
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Griff sees her in the woods, basked in mud and sticky blood of the bear she has killed and horse’s shit. The back of her black coat is torn apart, revealing three deep bleeding scars from the bear’s claws, yet she does not look like she’s in pain. She looks <em>glorious</em>.</p><p>With a grin, the she-wolf turns to face him. “Will you be the death of me?” she mocks, and he grins back.</p><p>“Not today.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Death of Me

**Author's Note:**

> Uhh, yep, deepest apology for some history-alteration? The timeline is set around 69, where Aegon is a very capable, already very old vampire. After that I'm uhh, skipping and stuff and went straight for the kill at the Viking Age around 800. He was part of Anicetus' anti-Roman uprising in Polemonia (same age) with Jon Connington and the Golden Company. For more details, you can see here:
> 
> http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Anicetus_%28pirate%29
> 
> If I'm wrong then oh well, fuck me :/

The silver sword hangs loosely around his grip. Somewhere along the line, he is frozen, struck by shock and realization so hard his heart that beats no longer, might fall. Blood, he realizes, stops pounding inside his veins, beneath the cold metal-hard of his skin. Blood, he sees, fills the cold air with the usual thick taste so intoxicating he can feel tears of blood well on the corner of his eyes. Death, he thinks, beats the blood; fills the air with its own rotten taste of decomposition, creating a ghost of silver chains that strangles his neck.

Griff lets the sword fall, then. He kneels down on the cabin beside his Sire’s corpse, taking the bigger, colder hand in his as Death creeps up from the tip of his black boots. He does not cry, but it is there, the sadness. Breathing is not necessarily needed at moments such as these, yet Griff finds himself choking for air. His mouth gapes open as he inhales, taking as much sharp salty air of the sea through his nostrils, filling his lungs like a poison. For the first time in five hundred centuries he has lived, blood tastes bile, metallic, detestably _thick_ on his tongue. More like a purse of silver dust has been forced down his throat. Griff feels the muscle of his jaw works, painful, he swallows, hard.

Duck is nothing but a pile of blood-stained dust on the railing above his Sire’s corpse. The rest of the crew is in worse condition, he sees, finds himself does not care about it all that much. It bothers him. Maybe that is the proper response, he supposes. Griff brings the cold fingers of his father’s to his lips and kisses it softly with as much tenderness as he manages to gather.

“Vater,” he whispers in desperation against the porcelain skin. “Ich liebe Dich, Ich habe Dich immer geliebt, und werde Dich immer lieben.” A crow nests on the railing where the remaining of Duck’s body is supposed to be. It croaks hungrily upon seeing his Father’s flesh. Griff stands up with the hilt of the sword gripped tight in his hand. “Vergib mir, Vater.” Griff adds longingly and the sword descends down into the blind spot between his Father’s pale blue eyes.

As the _camarae_ crashes down the coast of Mingrelia, inside the Roman’s territory, Young Griff jumps off the cabin with nothing but a sword on his hip and the blood of comrades, his maker, on his hands.

-x-x-x-

He loses track of time as it passes him—he who does nothing but feast upon the marvellous young bodies of his lovers’, the taste of youth sweet on his tongue, down his throat; he who does nothing but fuck and kill and wreak havoc among the human realm. It is several thousand years later, around the year 800 perhaps, that Griff decides to rationalize his actions. Humans are getting cleverer by the day, not clever enough to discover the existence of the vampires though, fortunately, but they are clever enough to start making various weapons that involve silver, which is the most unfortunate invention for his kind, so far.

It is also most unfortunate that several of his kin were to _unable_ to finish off their meals. Stories are spreading fast through the country and soon, it will be the entire world. Just a matter of time, he thinks, before the truth gets out of the bag. His kind is not the only one that will be in danger once it is, though. Even the werewolves too, are also getting restless at this newfound development. Silver works on vampires, but it works _so much better_ on the werewolves. One wrong step and he might find himself being displayed on a large cross with a stake through his heart.

Mistress Jeyne Heddle wears a red-blazing dress so tight Griff can see the hardening nipples beneath the materials. She is his lady of the night to court, his to please and his to worship on his bed at his castle up south. Greenland is cold, oh so cold indeed, and while it is not a big problem for him as he cannot feel the temperature affecting his existence, Mistress Heddle is warm. Tall, slender of body, big of breasts that make his mouth water. Food, he supposes, if it is as delicious as he predicts it to be, should be worth his time of courting. She drinks her wine with grace, looks up at him from the distance with a suggestive half-smile that he takes as his cue to come forward. Griff gives her a charming smile back in return, tilts the rim of his glass into his mouth slightly, before striding through the crowd like a white panther that makes Jeyne’s movement looks clumsy.

It is so very easy to please a horny woman such as her. A few flattering talks, an offer for a fresh air out of this place, the Heddles’ carriage that a _ccidentally_ passes by the backdoor and he is back in his castle with Jeyne shuddering beneath his weight.

She has such a perfect body this one, which makes Griff a little sad to see her go. While it is very possible, the idea of putting her under glamour so very tempting, she will be a very big burden on his shoulders, quite literally, if he wishes to start travelling across the world once again. He does love her breasts though. They are large, soft and squishy against his rough calloused hand, with two big pink nipples that make his cock turn harder than possible. Griff circles his tongue around one nipple as he strokes his fingers around the other, pinching and rolling his thumb slowly until the skin turns rosy red. He licks her nipple as he would blood, grazing his teeth once a while to hear her mewl, sucks hard and releases it from his lips with a soft _‘pop’_. Jeyne starts bucking her hips to meet his, pushing her legs apart to reveal the wet pink folds impatiently, her nails digging into his skin as she pulls his ass down to brush his cock against her entrance. Griff lets out a low primal growl deep in his throat and thrust forward.

He fucks her rough and fast, savouring each and every sound that escapes her lips. It is hard not to stare at the exposed skin of her neck while he is high on sex, so Griff shifts her hips up, hitting that sweet spot inside of her repeatedly, mercilessly, until she begs and sobs and moans in desperation for release. When he complies with her wish, she looks at him like he’s a god from the other world. Smirking, Griff leans down to the column of her throat, nipping at it softly, before sinking his fangs deep into her flesh. He comes with a howl, hard and fast it might have killed him, if he were a human still.

Afterward, when Griff finds that Mistress Heddle is still alive, he rips her throat with a flick of his wrist, all the while smiling sweetly in a gesture that says it is such a shame for the world to lose someone like her.

That night, he dreams of a woman, tall and slender and _gorgeous,_ standing proud beside him as they conquer the world together. He realizes that the world has so many Jeyne Heddles ripe for his picking, too many they bore him. That night, he dreams of dark tangled hair and piercing silver eyes and all he can think of is that he _has_ to find the woman, his lover, his _child_.

-x-x-x-

Norway is a nice place, a perfect place to live if he might add, with the exception of the entire continent is completely packed with werewolves. Robert Baratheon stands proud and tall at harbour as he jumps off _The Voyages_. Three other werewolves surface at his sudden movement, obviously threatening, but it is Robert he is looking at. In a pack there is only one alpha male. From the looks of it, Robert is the strongest, the most gallant out of them all. Rumours say that he is the fiercest werewolf in history, yet he is not known for being clever. Griff only hopes that there is no need for bloodshed, because Robert of all people should know better than coming up against an ancient vampire with only three people at his back.

The raven haired wolf grins and offers him his hand. “Welcome to Norway, Young Griff of the great Roman Empire.” Robert announces, louder than he wishes him to be. Griff smiles, says nothing. “It is such a _pleasure_ to meet you, you blood sucking bastard,” the werewolf adds roughly, much to his disdain. He shifts the weight of his body to his left feet, cranes his neck and smiles with malice, this time. Robert’s eyes flash yellow along with the rest of his pack, the hair on their bodies visibly getting longer, their stances ready to strike him at any moment. He is not afraid.

“Let us forfeit all necessary politeness that might lead to another war between our species, stinking dog.” Says Griff cheerfully as his hand sneaks to touch the hilt of his sword. “I am here merely to stay, hunt for a more decent food that of a Viking warrior, not the disgusting foul blood of your kind.” There is so much venom, so much sweetness in his sentence it makes even Griff sick. He wishes to tear this place apart, to drink all the blood he can until his veins burst. He wishes to strangle Robert Baratheon’s neck with his own hand in front of his pack, just to see if they dare to defy him or kill themselves. Do that though, and a war might break across the land.

Robert turns his body sideway, ushering his pack to do the same, and they do. They let him pass even though their fangs are extended, growling at him with so much hate he wants to shake his ass in front of their faces. He doesn’t. Instead, he focuses on a new foolproof plan to court another human tonight, perhaps a male this time. He doesn’t lie about the part where he wants to feast on the flesh of a Viking warrior this time.

Before he can leave out of sight, Renly Baratheon, a younger duplicate of Robert, calls out to him.

“Watch your back, vampire!” he shouts. “Not all of us are very considerate of having your kind on our territory.” Griff tilts his head and barks a laugh, because honestly, he can practically _hear_ the smile on Renly’s beautiful face when he speaks.

It seems like tonight, he will not have to court his Viking warrior. Tonight, Griff muses to himself, he has a wolf to warm his bed, if he manages.

-x-x-x-

Lady Saoirse is a mistress of a great Viking warrior. She is fierce, wild and surprisingly strong even when she’s armed with only a silver spoon. He makes sure to not reveal himself, acting as a proper gentleman from foreign country to get himself invited into her house. Eight or more slaves walk around the cabin of the living room, three more up in the bedroom, cleaning dust or droplets of salty wine or preparing fire on the fireplace, he barely gives a fuck. Once in, Griff claws her neck off, drinks the blood of three servants up above, slaughters the rest single-handedly without getting himself known or caught to the neighbour.

Renly comes to his house a few hours after the slaughter in a wolf form. When he transfers back to human, he is naked, bathes in fresh blood of his kill, beautiful scars across his chest and Griff feels his cock harden at the sight. He too, is covered in blood, already dry through hours of cleaning the bodies, not bothering to clean his own body at all. It is almost ironic how their species are so different yet so alike at this moment. Without waiting any further, Renly walks to him and rips his clothes open.

Griff does not wait, does not expect for the werewolf to undress him slowly like his list of lovers were. He is savage as he attacks the vampire’s mouth, tongue licking at the pointy curves of his fangs, exploring the moist caverns of his mouth. Their teeth clash a few times and their tongues are wrestling against each other for dominance. Renly kisses with so much passion, kissing him hotly, pressing his teeth against his lower lip like he would break the skin apart and Griff lets him, for now.

As Renly works himself out for dominance in their heated kiss, Griff lets his hands wonder down his back, following the pattern of his spine, the curve of his stomach, before going soft around his pelvis. The sharp tip of his nails barely touches the sensitive skin of Renly’s hips. When Renly moans aloud at the press of his finger on the head of his cock, Griff grips him hard and takes over the kiss and pushes him on the ground so hard it must have hurt the young werewolf. But it’s not, probably because of the whole fast-healing, multiplied strength of the werewolf that Renly simply kisses back just as hard, his teeth nipping rather roughly with ferocity until his lower lip bleeds while his upper one is completely abused.

Perhaps he should have already expected the fact that Renly wishes for no foreplay at all. Perhaps it has something to do with his smell of formalin-scented-rotten corpse, or maybe the knowledge that he is fucking with a gorgeous man who happens to be a really old vampire, the werewolves’ biggest most loathed enemy for, like, ever. Perhaps—

Oh. Holy Mother of— _oh_.

During his train of thoughts, Renly has somehow taken it as an offense that the vampire is distracted from _him_. All the Baratheons, he hears, are nothing but self-centred people unbefitting of the throne they own and the continent they rule. Renly being the youngest, most-spoiled child out of the three brothers does not help fixing the lineage he supposes, because one time he is kissing hotly against the werewolf’s lips and the next, Renly swats his hand away, grips his cock in one hand as he holds Griff down with the other, and lets Griff’s cock sink so deep, all the way into his ass with one quick, rough thrust. All the blood-circulations in his body seem to freeze in shock at the feeling of being inside someone, someone who is so tight it makes him moan helplessly on the ground as he forces his body _not_ to move because, holy shit, the boy is fucking _bleeding_ around his cock.

Griff has not breathed since the last time he got laid which is about, two weeks ago. He sees no need to do such thing now he is dead except during sex. Sometimes if he gets bored, he just rams restlessly into anyone who is willing without heaving out a single puff of his breath. But this time is different.

It is not different because he is in love with the boy or something, seven hells no, he is not. Griff breathes out through his lips, trying to calm the turmoil of his blood down as he takes as much air as possible into his lungs. The air that is filled with the thick animal scent of Renly mixed with the sweet intoxicating scent of blood; plus the sex lingers in the air, the salty sweat on Renly’s tanned skin which doesn’t really help much. His cock twitches interestedly inside Renly’s body, and the boy’s face contorts into that of pain but also pleasure at the same time. He doesn’t move for nearly forty five seconds, trying to adjust at the large intrusion in his ass that is Griff’s cock and Griff holds his body still, swallowing roughly and watches something flashes on Renly’s eyes as they follow down the column of his throat.

When the boy finally, _finally_ moves, Griff thinks that god actually exists and vampires can totally go to heaven. It feels so hot, just so _fucking intense_ as the muscles clench when Renly breathes in, the vibration it sends through his body when the werewolf growls deep inside, the rumbles inside the boy’s stomach, the erratic beating of his heart that makes Griff want to tear it out of his chest just to _feel_. Curses start escaping past his lips the moment Renly rocks forward, shifts backward, experimentally clenching the tight muscles of his ass around Griff’s cock in curiosity. His bright blue eyes never leave Griff’s face for long; watching the expression on his face changes as he pulls out (which makes the vampire _whimpers_ disappointedly; hips rocking up to meet him, hands firmly placed on each side of the werewolf’s hips to _push him back down_ ) before slamming back _hard_ (and he moans, he moans and he moans sensuously like this is the best sex of his life, and if he moans out Renly’s name, it is only because the boy is _so damned good_ at what he does it’s driving him _insane_ ).

Griff feels the heat, coiling around the pit of his stomach as their rhythm goes a bit faster, a bit out of control. He flips them over and shifts Renly’s hip _just right_ that his cock hits his prostate when he slides back in, moving around a bit before repeating the cycle a few times. Renly is already on edge, he sees. Despite the obvious pain that will not make him able to move around comfortably, he looks like he is in a bliss, like heaven is right in front of his eyes and all he has to do is reach out to get there. Renly’s cock is hard and red and leaking, smearing pre-cum all over his stomach, but Griff doesn’t mind. His own cock is coated with the kid’s blood, and he tries not to bite down at the sight of the smooth line of Renly’s slender neck despite the aroused-extended fangs. Griff feels it is getting easier, more pleasurable, yet not enough. He flips them into a sitting position, wrapping Renly’s strong legs around his waist as he puts his hands on the cheeks of Renly’s ass and kneads them roughly with his palm.

“Ride me, werewolf,” he whispers roughly into Renly’s ear, bites at the boy’s lobe until it bleeds, lapping at the blood though he spits it out in disgust at the coppery, literally shitty taste of the werewolf’s blood on his tongue. “Ride me hard; fuck me like your life depends on it.” Griff adds with a growl, and Renly does.

He crushes his lips down against Griff’s bloody ones, biting and licking and shoving his way in until he is breathless. His skin is hot and sticky and sweaty and smelled of sex though mixed with dog-like scent, yet Griff likes it all the same. Renly rolls his hips expertly, pushing his ass back before thrusting forward like an animal, like his life really depends on it. The blood coating his cock is a good enough replacement for the oil, as he fucks down on Griff’s cock harder, faster, moaning Griff’s name and mutters curses in Norse. He laughs at the sound of the vampire’s own curses; all whispered in language long dead, long forgotten back in the past. Renly’s teeth on his neck reminds him of his father’s fangs sinking into his veins, draining his blood as he worked him open. The memory is replaced with Renly’s face as the boy-wolf stops, clenches his ass so tight it makes him see colours beneath his eyelids. He howls his release into the moon and comes all over Griff’s stomach.

The vampire himself doesn’t take more than one last thrust, and then he rides his orgasm hard inside the werewolf’s, surprised at his self-restraint to know that he manages getting an _extremely_ amazing orgasm without having to kill the Baratheon or getting _not_ horny at the taste of his blood. He stays still for the entire twelve second, eyes closing in content when Renly doesn’t try to move yet either. He supposes that the boy-wolf is one of those types who cuddle after-sex; although somewhere deep inside his brain is screaming at him that it’s not. He knows what Renly is doing, and it totally _not_ cuddling simply because he has the greatest sex of his life (not trying to sound smug or anything, but yeah, Griff knows the drill; he knows he’s an _amazing_ lover when he needs be).

“You are delaying me, Baratheon.” Griff whispers into his scalp, breathing in on his natural scent that reminds him he is not to kill the wolf, especially not in Robert’s territory. “What for is not such a smart question no longer at this point, we shall agree on that, then.” Trailing his hand down the smooth plane of Renly’s back is also soothing, really helping to calm the raging storm inside of him. Griff decides to stop playing and chooses the straightforward way instead. “You’ve seen my child and you do not wish for us to meet. I am afraid it is not possible.”

Renly’s body is tense beneath his light-caresses. There is a threat in what he says, there always is. One look at Renly’s adrenaline-pumping heart gets his cock hard again, so he laps his tongue at the sweat on the werewolf’s shoulder blades, teasingly grazing his fangs against the skin. Renly swallows nothing but bile down his throat, he knows. It surprises him when the boy-wolf can speak still.

“If you and that woman were to meet each other, the world will crumble,” explains Renly. “When she decides to stay with you, tied to you through her entire life time, forever a loyal child, servant, lover, she has signed the world’s implacable doom.”

Girff shakes his head, clicks his tongue dramatically at the roof of his mouth, and laughs aloud. His hand rests comfortable on the side of Renly’s neck. The vampire leans in, kisses the werewolf on his cheek before attaches his lips to the boy’s ear. “The world’s doom is inevitable, my love, not implacable. After all you cannot defy god or the mother’s nature can you not? It is exactly the same with my child,” he says, smiling fondly despite having not known his child as of yet. “We are meant to be together. It is only a matter of time until I find her, or she finds me really, as it is inevitable as fate ever is.”

With one last kiss on the corner of Renly’s lips, Griff snaps the slender neck until he hears the satisfying _‘crack’_ of the werewolf’s fractured-bones. He pulls out, placing the body rather fondly on the couch beside the fireplace and freezes when the howling of the wolves, loud and filled with despair, reaches his ears. Calmly, Griff walks into the bedroom, takes a few clothes that are too large for his size, cleans the blood from his body with the small amount of water is left inside the cabin.

He leaves the village into the forest, and runs. Right now, he has a child to search.

-x-x-x-

Griff sees her in the woods, basked in mud and sticky blood of the bear she has killed and horse’s shit. The back of her black coat is torn apart, revealing three deep bleeding scars from the bear’s claws, yet she does not look like she’s in pain. She looks _glorious_.

With a grin, the she-wolf turns to face him. “Will you be the death of me?” she mocks, and he grins back.

“Not today.”

Griff strides forward until he towers over her small form, contemplating. This child who is to be his, he realizes, has not reached the right age yet. She is young, tall to be sure, enough to be mistaken as a seventeen year old. Slender of body, small of chest, she is completely not the type of woman he would fuck or drink from. But then again, something about her fascinates him; the way she handles the sword so perfectly, the way she moves wild and quick and graceful like that of a wolf, the fire that burns in her eyes as she looks at him straight, unafraid and unflinching—she is too _perfect_. Griff also has a feeling that this girl, this woman who shall be his, will probably a handful in the upcoming years. His grin turns into a smirk and he leans down to her face, watches.

“Do you know how _stunning_ you looked when you cracked its skull open, woman?” he whispers, tilts his head slightly in obvious fascination, sees the fire blazing wild in her eyes. She says nothing, the mocking grin hasn’t even left her face. Griff thinks that perhaps she is frozen in shock due to the pain, the blood on her back still fresh and pouring out of her body like an apple ripe for _his_ picking. Even her blood smells _so fucking delicious_ , he realizes, and his fangs extend without his permission. The girl holds her breath then, parts her split lips open as some sort of recognition dawns on her.

To his surprise, the woman _pushes_ him with her body, inching her face closer. “So you _are_ Death, after all,” she snarls, growling, and she is more like a wolf than she will ever be a vampire. Griff blinks, frowning as he ponders her statement in his head. Well, technically he _is_ Death. He does not die for more millennia than he can count, feasts upon humans like it is the easiest thing for him to do, gives the gift of mercy to those soldiers who fought against the Roman. He _can_ be death if he wishes to, he realizes, specifically he can be _hers_.

Griff smiles softly and clenches his fists when the urge to touch her cheeks and drink her blood strikes him. “Perhaps I am,” he tells her, gently, mischievously. “Perhaps I am not. You keep saying that but it is not death that you wish to find, is it not?” cold wind rustles around them; quick running-steps of the wolf follow shortly behind him. They have found Renly’s body then, he supposes.

“No. It is blood I want. The blood of my _valonquar_ , and the blood of a queen.” The girl replies evenly.  Griff widens his eyes in shock, a good kind of shock maybe, because this little fierce she-wolf has just spoken his tongue fluently. Maybe his dreams, Renly’s prediction, are not as boring as he’d thought it would be. The vampire leans closer until their foreheads are touching, notes the girl’s slight discomfort at the lack of oxygen or the nonexistent of it from his nose or his lips.

“Blood of your kin and the blood of a certain queen on your hands. That would be an absolutely pretty sight to behold,” Griff says and shifts his face to line with hers. “Kindly tell me your name, woman, and I shall give you what you seek.”

Suspicion flashes in her eyes, burning with restrained anger that bites into his very soul. Griff feels a shiver running down his spine, anticipation ripples through his skin. She licks her lips and he watches the motion, charmed.

“My name in exchange for blood of the people you don’t even know?” a laughter tears its way out of her throat, harsh and forced. The girl chokes on her own blood before she spits them out from her mouth in disgust. “I’d rather kill them myself. And I don’t need help from some stranger who made a mess out of the Baratheon’s pack.” She knows then, he thinks, she knows of their world.

All the pleasant surprises, all the things this little girl gives him are not enough. Griff feels his blood sings, his body thrums in excitement, something inside him crawls at the very thought of the girl as his child, his companion, his servant, his own queen.

The howling of the wolves in the distance is getting louder, merrier by the second. While he is fully confident of being able to slaughter the whole pack with his bare hands, strong as she is, the girl would be caught up in the entire thing, creating a whole fucking mess that he’d rather not deal with. He asks her for her name, just her name alone, and although she is hesitant at first, the girl gives it to him. “Arya,” she says. “Arya Stark, of the North.”

Griff nods approvingly. “Like I said, I can give you what you want, Arya.” He drawls; voice harsh with hunger he doesn’t realize he’s been holding. “That is, if you let me. Both of us know what I am, and I take it that both of us are aware of my... intention to turn you. Not now,” the vampire adds quickly when the northerner startles back. “Once you are of age, I will. You can get your blood, in a quite literal sense of word, but you shall be mine, as I am yours. Forever you will live, in price of losing everything for vengeance.”

The look she gives him is flat, indifference. Yet her voice trembles weakly when she asks, “What should I do?”

He grins, bites his lower lip until it bleeds, and leans closer until their lips are touching.

“Drink.” Griff commands.

She bites his lip and drinks.

**Author's Note:**

> Blame google translate for the horrible German of this:
> 
>  _"Vater, Ich liebe dich, ich euch geliebt habe, wird Ich liebe dich. Vergib mir, Vater."_ It means "Father, I love you, I have loved you, I will love you. Forgive me, Father."
> 
>  _Camarae_ is a type of ship.
> 
> And yes, Aegon is much older than Gerris or any vampires that will show up later. I'm uhh, trying to decide between Jon/Dany and Cersei/Sansa for the next part. Decision, decision.
> 
> edit: Thanks to Cardinala for the correct German translation! I love you dude, seriously.


End file.
